Open Letter Series: #4

To the gentleman I met outside CC’s Saturday night:

While I appreciated the cigarette, I’m terribly sorry. I still can’t be “your woman”. I didn’t really feel like we hit it off considering I understood less than 13% of the words you slurred at me. When I said “I’d take down your number but my phone is dead” what I really meant is “I’d like to graciously end this conversation now and never see you again”. Luckily, you caught the “I’d really love if you isolated me from my friend group on the dance floor” subtext. Sometimes I just have a hard time saying what I mean, you know?

I didn’t mean to send you mixed messages when I wore that dress to a gay bar. I understand now how the effective use of all of those bobby pins might skew your perception of my sexual preferences. Even after I clearly stated them. I’m sorry! My straight roommate intervened before I could leave the house in my usual blue jeans and stocking cap. Had I stuck to the usual lesbian-wear, I’m sure we wouldn’t be having this discussion right now.

Here’s the deal: you like beautiful women? So do I. We had this conversation already, but I guess I wasn’t clear. Before you take this too hard, let me paint you a visual of my Sunday morning:

10:30am, after a 5 mile jog that I woefully underdressed for, standing on the corner of 4^th and Couch. There’s hot sauce in my cuticles and tire filth on my legs. See, the night before I was very nearly run over. Twice. Sometimes a girl needs to sit on the sidewalk and eat a burrito like an animal with her bare hands. People trying to park near said patch of sidewalk may find this inconvenient. Luckily, friends will punch moving vehicles to preserve your life and limb. Twice.

After roaming increasingly desperate circles for fifteen minutes I conclude my car (the sweet baby egg I’ve owned for less than a month) was towed. Unfortunately, this realization dawns on me the exact moment my phone dies. Bad weather continues to loom forebodingly. Clutched in my icy little paws: car keys, credit card, driver’s license, dead phone. By now I’m regretting the decision to forego hat and sweatpants in favor of tanning my alien pale bodyskin.

Commence icy drizzle and search for 1) a phone charger 2) a power outlet 3) a hot beverage. This is how I found myself riding an escalator into the depths of TJ Maxx hell at 11am on a Sunday morning. The checkout girl had a vaguely foreign accent and an impressive aversion to emotional display.

Ride the escalator back into the real world, clutching a TJ Maxx bag. Become aware of darkening bruises on right knee and shin.Wander into Starbucks number one. Coffee but no power outlet. Walk three blocks, locate second Starbucks. Locate power outlet. Locate Carrrl (or more accurately, beg Allison to come to the rescue). Die on the inside when you hear the cost to spring him from the joint. Commence two hours of YouTube videos, Words with Friends, and mindless Tumblr scrolling.

And that, my friend, is a day in the life.

So. Before you call to propose another coffee date, please envision a 25-year-old woman shivering in a dark corner of Starbucks, listening to Ellen Page’s coming-out speech, and clutching a lukewarm latte. Delete my number. Be glad you dodged this bullet.

I’m glad we could have this talk. I'm sure you're a very nice fellow. 

-b